Chapter 21

 

Tuesday

 

Brenda was gathering up the surprisingly few papers the students had left behind. “Hey—Abby, is it?—what do you want to try next?”

“I still don’t know what there is, and I don’t want to disrupt anything or anyone. What do you recommend?”

“Well, Carolyn started you off with an easy group. Maybe you need to see one that uses words instead of images.”

“That makes sense. Do the kids tend to do one or the other, but not both?”

“Maybe.” Watching Abby’s face, Brenda burst out laughing. “You really are new to this, aren’t you? You must know there’s a full spectrum of abilities and deficits, right?”

“Yes, I looked up that much.”

“Do you know how autistic children interpret the world? There’s no one answer. Some see it visually, like a series of images that they store away and use to interpret new experiences. And they keep adding to that database all their lives. Others see it—though ‘see’ is a term that makes little sense in this case—through sound. And that doesn’t mean words. They interpret inflection, noise, not always the words themselves. Some do read, but it’s like it’s an exercise on paper for them. They don’t associate what words they see with the sounds they hear coming out of people’s mouths. There are a lot of combinations, and it’s not always easy to find out which applies to a particular person. It takes time and patience. And even when you do figure out their mode of seeing, there’s not a lot of reason to lump all the kids with a single perspective into one group, because they may operate at different speeds, so one kid ‘gets it’ while the one next to him is still trying to put the pieces together.”

Abby sighed inwardly. “You weren’t kidding about the patience part. Tell me, how did you get into this?”

“My younger sister was autistic. And our mother wasn’t the best person to deal with a problem like that. She wasn’t exactly educated, and she wasn’t a particularly loving person. My sister was just smart enough to be a problem and get in her face, so there were a lot of fights. A lot of screaming, on both sides. Once I was old enough to understand, I thought there must be a better way to handle things. You know, in the bad old days kids like that would have been locked up in an asylum, and I bet a lot of parents were happy to get them off their hands, whether or not they’d admit it. That’s just not right. Whatever their problems, these kids are people. They just see and react to the world differently than most people.”

Abby smiled. “That’s about what I thought. There’s someone there inside, and they need help to understand and to get out.”

“Yeah, but don’t think you can save the world. There’s always research going on, but there’s no magic switch or potion that will help them open up. But that doesn’t mean people shouldn’t keep trying, and boy, does it feel good when you make that connection, no matter how small.”

Then I should fit just fine—if things work out. “I hope so. Thanks, Brenda. Now, point me toward the next room, please.”

“Up the stairs you came down, turn right, and third door on the left.”

Most of the students seemed to have made their way to their next—what was she supposed to call them? activity?—so Abby was one of the last to slip into the room. The teacher nodded at her but kept on talking to the students. Abby found a seat at the back corner and settled down to listen. She deliberately had not brought anything to write on, because she had worried that it might upset or distract the children if they noticed her scribbling. Besides, now she could focus on other things—facial expressions, interactions between the children, how the teacher handled the class, and what materials she was covering. The students in this room appeared a bit older than the ones in the last room, and the boys outnumbered the girls about two to one. Abby wondered what gender ratio the school tried to achieve, and whether that was even a criterion for selection. And, she added with a dash of guilt, did how did the size of the parents’ wallets factor into that equation?

It took her a few minutes to understand what level these children were operating on. They seemed to understand the concepts of words and spelling, but that was only one part of reading. How much did they understand meaning? This was beyond simple sentences, but what about the concepts? Again, she acknowledged that she’d only skimmed the surface of available literature, but did autistic persons—child or adult—understand what friendship was? Romantic relationships? Would the teacher include books with such themes in the usual syllabus, or try to avoid them—which would severely limit the available literature? Or could she or he use those books as models for mainstream emotional relationships for the children?

Maybe she should have brought a notepad, because she was coming up with more and more questions. How do you teach children when they don’t speak your language, in multiple senses of the word? Is the goal to make them functional members of society, able to use their often unusual intelligence to make a real contribution, even if it was achieved in an unorthodox way? Or was it enough to make them happy with their lives, able to cope with ordinary day-to-day living?

And why on earth did she think she could help? How presumptuous of her. A dialogue began in her head. Abby, why do you think you can do anything for these children?

Well, I have a unique skill that might—just might—open up a new way of communicating with them. And it hasn’t been tried before.

Sure, if it’s real. You could be crazy, you know.

No, I don’t believe that. I’ve met other people who share this, and we communicate with each other in nontypical ways.

But why do you think this will work with kids whose brains aren’t wired the way most people’s are?

Ned can bring in science—we’ve already started that.

But will it fix the kids?

We aren’t even thinking of fixing them—we want to understand them first. It makes my heart ache to think of all that intelligence and capability being locked away inside them forever. And some of the kids are miserable because they’re pretty much out of step with the world around them.

So why is that your problem?

Because I think I can help. That’s all I want to do! Not make money, not write important papers, just let these kids find a bigger niche in the world.

Good luck with that, Abby.

Abby dragged herself away from the naysaying voice in her head and tried to focus on what was happening in front of her. The kids were well behaved and quiet. Maybe too quiet. Were they paying attention? Or were they lost in whatever they saw in their heads? Or were they completely confused by the abstract concepts the teacher was trying to convey, even on a simple level? Did “abstract” even apply to autistic people? They absorbed what they saw and heard or even smelled and interpreted it in a way that made sense, but maybe only to them.

Abby was ashamed to admit that she was relieved when the class finally ended. She hadn’t contributed anything, but she’d listened hard. And succeeded in depressing herself. Was this foolish experiment of hers going to work at all?

The teacher was the last to leave. “So, you’re Abby. I’m Sandra. What did you think?”

“I think I’ll stick to the younger kids. I can’t begin to imagine how you can teach reading to children with learning disabilities, coupled with the absence of any sort of emotional connection with the words they’re reading.”

The teacher took a step back and studied Abby critically. “What did you think this would be? Butterflies and bluebirds? It’s hard work.”

“I know that. Or I thought I did. But reading descriptions on a page is not the same as seeing it. Tell me, how do you talk about books—any books—if you leave the human relationships out? What do these children make of emotional attachments or even love stories?”

“Abby, that’s a difficult question. We know they are capable of love and friendship, but it’s the expression of those feelings that they struggle with. At least reading about them in literature helps them to recognize the signals that other people expect. They have to recognize human actions and reactions and understand them, in order to show them. A lot of these kids are really smart, and they can find a niche of their own in the sciences or computer programming and the like. But first they have to get the jobs, and to do that they have to learn how to interact and to read expressions. Most of us do that simply by growing up and observing. These kids have to make a conscious effort to learn to do that. And many of them don’t even want to, because it’s scary.”

“I can understand that—it’s scary enough even if you’re not autistic, putting yourself out there to be judged. And dealing with rejection too.”

“Not your typical kindergarten, eh?” Sandra said, not without sympathy. “Look, don’t be ashamed if you decide you can’t handle this. Nobody pretends it’s easy to reach these kids, and in a way, it’s like they never grow up. On the plus side, they keep learning all the time, throughout their lives. On the minus side, it’s an endless job.”

“Do you think it makes a difference if you start working with them when they’re young?”

“I do, although I don’t know what all the experts have to say. But think about it—most children with autism don’t show any symptoms until they’re two or three, and at that point things can change significantly. But maybe if you can reach them early, the lines of communication will stay open as they get older. Maybe. We always have hope, but you also have to be prepared to be disappointed.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your honesty. Is there another class now that I should go to?”

Sandra checked the clock on the wall. “They’ve got a break now. They’re still kids, and they need to burn off some energy. Why not watch them on the playground for a bit, then track down Carolyn? She can tell you the afternoon schedule.”

“I’ll do that. Oh, how do I get to the playground?”

“Behind the building.”

“Thanks.” Abby left the room and wandered down the hall until she came to a set of doors that led outside. There was a short flight of stairs that led down to what she guessed must be the playground. Once outside, she found a bench near the door and sat down to watch the children—and to think.

Okay, maybe she’d been naïve. She’d been so excited when she’d felt something on touching Danny, but maybe she hadn’t exactly thought through what to do with that discovery. Yes, she still believed it could be a conduit to communicating with these children in a new way. No, she hadn’t assumed she would stroll through a group patting each one on the head and thereby liberating their true inner selves. And everybody would live happily ever after. Right.

But what was the standard for success? Was making a significant connection to one child enough? Or how many? Was she just grasping at straws because she was bored and restless and she wanted something important to do?

Oh, shut up, Abby. That annoying inner voice was back. You haven’t even made it through one day and you’re ready to give up?

She sat up straighter on the bench. No, I’m not a quitter. I have a rare talent, and I want to use it to do something good.

Yeah, the voice sneered, and you want to be a superheroine and save the world. This would be hard work, you know.

I get that. But it’s worth trying, isn’t it?

Inner voice did not reply. Abby told herself it was just first-day jitters, and she shouldn’t judge on so little information. She took a few deep breaths and started watching the children and how they interacted.

Or didn’t. The scene was so quiet. Some kids just sat and rocked. Others appeared to have brought a toy along—was that a Rubik’s cube she saw? Some marched purposefully around the perimeter of the playground, without talking to anyone. She thought about her own school days, when she and her friends would create complicated stories and act them out together. Was there a theater class here at this school? And she hadn’t visited a music class yet. Wasn’t music just a different expression of mathematical functions—pitches, intervals and such? Would a group of students hear the same pitch, follow the same beat? That could be interesting.

She stood up and went back inside to look for Carolyn, to report on her morning.